Page 13 of Crosswind

At Schiphol we separate.

This is the practical reality — he goes through crew, I go through passengers. We stop at the point where the terminal splits and he turns to face me and there is a moment of, I don't have a word for it. A goodbye that isn't really a goodbye, you will see the person again in twelve hours on the other side of the world.

He kisses me. Briefly, properly, in the middle of Schiphol at eight forty-five on a Tuesday morning with his crew bag over his shoulder and his uniform and the terminal moving around us. I let him. I don't think about who is watching.

"See you on the other side," he says.

He picks up his bag and goes through the crew entrance. I watch him until he is through, stopping to speak to someone by name, signing something on a tablet without breaking stride, the easy authority of someone entirely in their element, and then he is through the door and I am on my side of the glass.

I pick up my coffee and go to find my gate.

Patrick booked the ticket using his airline employee discount and paid extra to confirm the seat, something I discovered only after arguing with him twice. The lounge. Then 1A, business class, window seat.

I have flown business before, work trips, the occasional upgrade. I have never flown business because someone wanted to take care of me. I sit down, look at the seat, and think about this for approximately four seconds before deciding not to examine it further.

The cabin is still boarding when I hear him.

"Mr Novak."

I look up. Patrick is standing in the aisle in full uniform, hands behind his back, the expression of someone exercising professional composure over something that is privately very funny to him.

"Captain," I say.

"Just checking in on our business class passengers." He glances at the seat, the window, the untouched glass of orange juice. "Everything to your satisfaction?"

"It's adequate," I say.

He leans down slightly, voice dropping, the composure cracking entirely. "You look good in 1A, baby."

Around us the cabin is boarding, passengers, bags, the ordinary business of an aircraft filling up, and Patrick Sutton is in full uniform calling me baby in business class with complete and total lack of embarrassment.

"There are people," I say.

"I know." He straightens. The composure returns, not entirely convincingly. "I'll be up front if you need anything."

"I know where the cockpit is."

He looks at me for one more moment, the private smile, entirely out of place in the uniform and entirely him, and then he is back up the aisle, professional, unhurried, the flight deck door closing behind him.

I am, I find, smiling at the window. I stop doing that.

The aircraft pushes back at exactly ten o'clock.

And then, through the cabin speakers, his voice.

Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. This is your captain speaking. Welcome aboard this flight to Cape Town.

I put my book down.

I have heard Patrick's voice every day for months. I know it across a kitchen, across a sofa, in the dark. I have heard it say my name in ways I will not be examining in an aircraft cabin at ten in the morning.

I have not heard it like this.

Measured. Unhurried. The authority of someone who has done this a thousand times and means every word of it.

We're looking at a flight time of approximately eleven hours. The weather in Cape Town is clear, twenty-two degrees. Sit back, relax, and enjoy the flight.

The speakers click off.